BeholderThe horse seems enormous
when you're trying to get back on, and everyone's saying you never fell off in the first place. The pen and the sword get so heavy when the war goes undeclared and the mighty stay home watching Netflix and no one will tell you you're sputtering out. The camera won't add one little ounce in your hands, if the shutter stays untriggered and the subjects wax hypothetical about yoga classes they'll take in the spring. The beholder has nothing to do with beauty and you know it. Show your work on the back for full credit because the hard copy is no copy at all - It's the bruise on the thigh of the story of how you remembered to do what you love. by William Canepa William Canepa is the winner of the 2018 Third Quarter Poem Booth Contest. Congratulations William!
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Let the Heat Punch You in the Face"Step outside and
let the heat punch you in the face." Open the door. I'm ready for a beating. I will come back ruddy, lines already visible where clothing shaded, exhausted from failed attempts to photosynthesize. For a year, I let Conor's words fester inside my inbox waiting for the day I would challenge them and pull poetic jiujitsu catching the sun's fist and embracing it with the full weight of melanin. Triple digits threatened heat stroke for the under-hydrated as if the air conditioning had me like Skinner's rats pressing the lever for comfort, which is to say I put them off. I radiate heat instead of verbs because I contain suns not refrigerant running through metal coils. The artificial dryness gives me headaches, even my skin forgets to sweat. by Danny Canham "Let the Heat Punch You in the Face" is an honorable mention in the 2018 Third Quarter Poetry Contest. Congratulations Danny! SampleYou leaned out of the window to name the flowers,
glimpse them slouching in borrowed gowns: fireweed hung with cleavers, shoulders frayed. A speedy smear, yet fireweed: the fluff custom-made to pack with goat wool into blankets, come autumn. Autumn's come. But back in early summer you'd time to slowly walk this rose-flame stretch of roadside where fireweed stakes out the break of a burn. See how its lance leaves guard the shadier fern? And that frayed yellow stalk by the ditch-? What's underneath's what no one's buying: taste the green pith come spring, its verge of honey shiver crushed against the tongue: "asperge" they call it, asparagus for scouts or blunderers who'll urge you to stop and sample the near. by Renae Keep "Sample" is an honorable mention in the Third Quarter Poetry Contest 2018. Congratulations Renae! Ante thesesBefore the washing machine, the river
Before the river, the ice that explains Neither itself nor the machine Before the navel, the shell Before the shell, the softer semblance Neither known nor unnavigable Before the nemesis, the prayer Before the prayer, the organist urgently pressing pedals and keys Before you, me Before me, a story that ends Neither with me nor without Before the thunder, the lightning Before the lightning, the surge Neither spoken nor sayable Before the word, the squawk Before the squawk, the egg dropping, slipping bearing down by Renae Keep Ante theses is an honorable mention in the 2018 Third Quarter Poetry Contest. Congratulations Renae! |